


Last Things

by arcadian_dream



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A car doesn't just carry people, it carries memories." During one of its last excursions, the Lacetti remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Things

Fingers curl under the passenger-side door handle; they lift and tug and I, a Chevy Lacetti, bend to their will; my door swings open, its hinges pierce the silent thrum of the evening with a shuddering creak.

"Do you remember the last time we were sat here?" he asks; he, the driver, the man called Richard. I can feel his weight shift: hands still on the wheel, he turns his body to face the passenger.

Nothing; silence.

The passenger does not reply.

"James?" Richard says, persistent. "Do you remember?"

The passenger, James, moves awkwardly in his seat. I can feel the tension in his body as it moves, as though he is being pulled and stretched, taut like a great skein of canvas.

"Of course," he says. "Of course I remember."

I, too, remember, though Richard does not ask me.

I remember the way they were: cold and dripping wet and huddled against one another.

I remember the frantic movements of rushing limbs and grasping hands and knees digging into me.

I remember the sound of panting breaths and smacking lips and shouts of pure ecstasy.

I, a Chevy Lacetti, remember it all.

"Well?" Richard says, interrupting the stolid quiet that has fallen over the two men, blanketing both them, and me, once more.

James swallows. I see the gesticulation of his throat; muscle and skin accommodating the strained motion of his Adam's apple.

"Well what?" he says, eventually.

Now, it is Richard who doesn't reply. Instead, he allows a hand to fall from my steering wheel: I can feel the glancing touch of his fingertips as he passes over the gear stick; and I can see as his hand finally comes to rest on James' denim-clad thigh, and the way Richard buries it between James' legs.

I can feel the alternating motion of James' thrusts – the rhythmic movement of his weight - as he moves into and against Richard's palm as he is rubbed through his jeans; I can see the contortions of James' mouth, his head knocking on the head-rest with such veracity that I, for a moment, think it shall come loose, crumbling to pieces like the stilted, guttural moan that spills from James' twisting lips.

These are the last things that I will see and feel, and it is these that I will recall when I am crushed tomorrow: when my steel crumbles like James' last moans, and my insides quiver like Richard's fingertips.

I will cling to them, these last things, like they to one another.

And I will remember it all.


End file.
